What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Chipmunks celebrate independence too!

My mothership has a pet chipmunk. He’s not a pet in the sense that he sits in a cage in the house and runs on a wheel or plows around the living room in a clear plastic ball. He’s an outdoor pet and he lives, for the most part, by his own means.

He popped up five years or so ago, a little brown chipmunk with a racing stripe on its back. My mom found him nosing around her garden. She says he appeared shortly after I moved away. He was nibbling on sunflower seeds and millet in her bird feeders, which explained why her feeders were mysteriously losing seeds within hours of filling them.

Rather than shoo him away, my mothership, the patron saint of woodland creatures, stray cats, one-eyed bunnies, wayward frogs and ailing birds, started filling the feeders with extra seeds and extra millet. And the chipmunk that she had so cleverly named Chippy did not protest.

In the wintertime, when Chippy took refuge under a drainage cap in the garage, my mother would leave him seeds and millet in an old margarine container that he would swiftly horde somewhere dark and warm under the cement foundation of my dad’s large, spotless garage.

For years she’s fed Chippy, watching him from her front picture window as he scampers to and from bird feeders, riling blue jays and cardinals who dare cross his path. He is, without a doubt, the lion king reigning over all critters living in or trespassing through her front yard ecosystem.

She likes it this way. Feels it gives purpose to her plants. She also has a fish pond in the garden, and while fish are fine garden-variety specimens, she needs a little warm blood in the mix.

Often when I call her in the summer, she’s watching Chippy bully his way around daylilies and ferns.

“The birds are getting pissed,” she says. “Chippy doesn’t leave them any seeds. He’s such a pig.”

The chipmunk can do no wrong. He tears up my mom’s garden, buries his loot in her flowerbeds and gnaws on wooden bird feeders in pursuit of more food. Anyone who has ever visited my parent’s house is familiar with the rogue chipmunk.

Last month, my Dad shared with me this twist in the plot:

My father works about six miles from his home, at a tiny tool and die shop in a town called Eden. He’s worked here since he was a teenager and with many of the same guys too. While on his lunch break one day, his coworker Steve pointed out that there was a chipmunk standing by his truck. Real still-like. Frozen almost. Some might say shellshocked.

Actually, according to my dad’s story, what Steve said was:

“Rich! Looks like you brought a chipmunk to work.”

My dad brushed it off at first. Chipmunks are a dime a dozen in Western New York, but knowing my mom’s fascination with Chippy he figured he’d walk out to his truck and take a look.

“I’m telling you,” Steve said, “every time I get close to the thing, it jumps up under your truck somewhere.”

“Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t Gail’s chipmunk,” he said as he walked out the shop door, followed by a gaggle of men.

Sure enough, under his tires stood a chipmunk with a racing stripe on its back and every time someone approached him, he would scamper under the truck and out of sight.

Undeterred, the men decided to bait him with Cheesy Poofs. Still Chippy would not emerge.

“That chipmunk musta rode to work with me,” my Dad said. “Musta found himself a stable place under the truck. I can’t believe it. Gail’s gonna kill me if it doesn’t get home.”

But there was nothing he could do. The skittish chipmunk would not let them near and the Cheesy Poofs did little to tempt him. So the men, dejected, went back to work.

My dad had resigned himself to the fact that Chippy would eventually find himself a new home; a new garden to ransack. Of course he wanted out of North Collins! A town called Eden was just around the corner! Who could blame the cheeky self-serving rat? After five years of slumming it under a well cap and choking down birdseed, Chippy had caught wind of Eden just six miles away and like any street-smart rodent, he hitched a ride out of town.

On my father’s 10-minute drive home, he brainstormed ways to break the news to my mom. Chippy – like his three daughters – had moved out. Even worse, he had suppressed his appetite in doing so. He had turned his nose to puffed corn snacks in the name of greener pastures. It was indeed a sad day.

But then the unimaginable happened. When my father pulled into the garage and stepped out of his truck, Chippy tore out from under the vehicle, scurried across the cement and wiggled down into the well cap.

My father was dumbstruck. The chipmunk had merely gone for a road trip! Suffered a case of cabin fever and hopped aboard a Ford pickup for a little joy ride. The fearless ‘munk probably saw those Cheesy Poofs and thought he’d died and gone to rodent heaven.

Now. Whether these were Chippy’s intentions, we’ll never know. My mom was quite impressed with the critter’s fortitude and as a result rewarded him handsomely for surviving the adventure with extra millet and extra sunflower seeds.

According to this animal totem website, chipmunks, like squirrels, embody the quality of trust. They have little fear of people and are often found in rural areas, city parks and in the wild. Chipmunks are very curious and take the time to explore everything that comes across their path. They are inquisitive, fearless and playful. They do what they want to do in their own time frame. They are quite vocal, often drawing attention to themselves. Chipmunk medicine people will not tolerate being told what to do or when to do it. They make good leaders and spokespersons.

When a chipmunk is twelve weeks old they have the ability to be on their own. The symbolism of the number twelve or the combined numbers of one and two should be studied by those with this totem. Cycles occur regularly in a person’s life and those with chipmunk medicine will often find that changes will occur in their life approximately every twelve weeks or twelve months. Knowing this gives you forewarning and the opportunity for preparedness.

By watching chipmunks, much behavior can be learned. They appear to scamper to and fro always in a hurry to get somewhere. Starting in one direction, circling around and arriving back where they started from. Chipmunk teaches the art of observation and appropriate movement.

Chipmunks have an air of independence and certainty about them. Their inquisitive nature leads them into unexplored territory and their detailed mind leaves no stone unturned. If chipmunk is your totem pay attention to how your energy is being used. Are your thoughts constructive or destructive? Are your fears keeping you from playing and enjoying life? Are you in charge of your life, or have you given your authority over to another?

Chipmunk is the messenger of many realms. If this is your totem you are on your way to self-discovery.

Comments

I love it. My Gpa is the same way. He has a bluejay and a squirrel that he’s named, and he has trained the ducks behind his house to come when he whistles so he can feed them. Totally forwarding him your post. 🙂 It made me smile. Good for Chippy.

The new website looks beautiful!!! The picture of the Pug is absolutely adorable!

I loved the story of Chippy…among my many childhood camping experiences I definitly had a few Chippies I would feed peanuts to. They made me so happy when they would come right into the palm of your hand.

Hmmmmm I am trying to figure out what my animal spirit guide would be…. I know my Mom’s definitly would be an ‘angry’ donkey she used to see everyday when she drove us to school. She loved that freaking donkey!

How cool that Chippy has stuck around for so long! About eight months ago, a cat adopted my dad. Then the cat had kittens and brought them around. And then more cats showed up. Suddenly, my dad, a man who would totally be the patron saint of one-eyed bunnies if the post weren’t already taken with the notable exception of cats which he’s never liked, had five cats. Their names are Cat, Little Cat, Small Cat, Cat Four, and Cat Five. He’s totally in love with them, constantly taking pictures, and Cat rules the roost. It’s like we have to ask permission to visit the house sometimes.

His twist in the story is that two weeks ago, my parents heard the cat food on the porch being rustled. It was much later than any of the cats normally stopped by, so they peeked out the window to see which one it was.

Hahaha I laughed so hard at this story, it reminded me of a “pet” lizard that lived in my grandparent’s house. 35 years after the first spotting of Jordi (catalan name for George, you know, the one with the dragon… we’re that inventive in this family) my grandma swears it’s still the same one because she can recognize its movements and character. I should google lizards for her.

BTW, thanks for the comment! I’m glad other people appreciate my art. My boyfriend will be thrilled to hear that according to the general public I’m not a total freak.

Sitting here writing this message while watching Chippy hang upside down from a feeder cage I have outside my window. My little woodland friend probably is thinking it’s about time woman for giving me something proper to eat again. You see….I ran out of seed and have been scrounging my pantry for things it might enjoy. Like cereal, strawberries and peanut butter. As I type this I’m thinking,,,damn that actually sounds better then the same boring seed day after day. Think I’ll continue to lay out a buffet for him. Anyone that knows us also knows we are all about the buffets.
When talking about Chippy I use to say he did this and he’s doing that. I am thinking Chippy’s a
“SHE” NOT a “HE” for we now have little versions of chippy’s scampering around the gardens. Call me crazy, but I love it!

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Why Lance?

This blog is named after my old friend Sarah's manifestation of a dreamy Wyoming cowboy named Lance, because the word blog sounds like something that comes out of a person's nose.

About me

I'm a journalist who spends my Mondays through Fridays writing other people's stories, a chronic procrastinator who needs structure. I once quit my job to write a book and like most writers, I made up excuses why I couldn't keep at it.

My boyfriendfiancé husband Joe likes to sleep in late on the weekends, but since we have a kid now that happens less than he'd like.

Before Henry and Chip, I used to spend my mornings browsing celebrity tabloid websites while our dog snored under the covers. Now I hide my computer in spots my feral children can't reach because everything I own is now broken, stained or peed on.

I created Lance in an attempt to better spend my free time. I thought it might jump start a second attempt at writing a novel.

It hasn't. And my free time is gone.

But I'm still here writing.

I'm 262728293031 323334 35 and I've yet to get caught up in something else, which is kind of a big deal for a chronic procrastinator.